“If you manage to make a mess of things, there’s a chance you could be essentially setting your friends’ money on fire. More importantly, there’s a woman behind those walls who might suffer because of it.”
She closed her eyes and took a breath. “You’ve buried and forgotten so many things, I just assumed you were over that as well.”
She was wrong. I’d buried and forgotten nothing. Instead, I’d used it all as fuel.
“There are some things we never get over. Some things we hide from the light,” I said, patting my pocket only to remember I’d left my cigarette in the car.
Sloane lifted her gaze to the heavy gray clouds and wrinkled her nose. Her stud was a pale pink today. “I take it you used your creepy spy network to dig into Mary Louise’s case,” she guessed.
“I may have glanced at some files.”
My team had done a fast, deep dive, and I’d managed to pore over their findings between everything else I’d had to do today. By all accounts, Mary Louise Upshaw was a model prisoner who used her time inside to earn two degrees and start a creative writing program for her fellow inmates. My own legal counsel had reviewed her sentence and found it “absolute bullshit.” Which meant the justice-seeking Sloane was probably about to have her heart shattered.
“So you think we might have a case,” she pressed.
“I think a lot rides on what she has to say,” I hedged.
The visitation room was more depressing than I’d anticipated. There were two rows of scarred folding tables sandwiched between cracked and faded vinyl chairs. The industrial tile floor was stained and peeling. Some of the ceiling tiles were missing between flickering fluorescent lights. There was something that looked suspiciously like mold climbing the walls under the glass block windows.
Sloane was clicking her pen and gnawing on her lower lip, her eyes wide behind her glasses. With a sigh, I gripped the back of her chair and pulled it and her into my side.
She stopped clicking her pen and frowned up at me. She’d always had that little line between her eyebrows that deepened when she was deep in thought…or pissed off at me. I wanted to run my finger over it.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I told her.
“I’m not afraid.”
I looked down pointedly at the denim-clad leg that was jiggling a mere inch from my own.
“Fine. I’m not afraid, I’m nervous. Okay?”
“What do you have to be nervous about? You get to walk out of here.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. But what if she’s wonderful? What if she really is in here based on some gross injustice? What if she’s lost all these years of her life to an unfair sentence?”
“Then you’ll help her.”
She went back to chewing on her lower lip for a few moments and then shifted to face me. Her knee was pressing into my thigh. Those green eyes were earnest. “What if her sentence was unfairly harsh but she’s a terrible person?”
I felt myself softening toward her. Just like her father, she wanted to make a difference in the lives of strangers. But Sloane didn’t have Simon’s unlimited capacity for forgiveness. Neither did I.
“Then we’ll talk afterward and figure out the best way forward. There’s no point wasting any mental energy on a scenario that hasn’t played out yet.”
She frowned. “You strike me as the kind of man who goes into every situation having considered every possible scenario.”
My lips quirked. “It’s a luxury of someone who has no human feelings.”
“Lucian, I’m serious.”
“As am I. You approach this conversation your way, and I’ll approach it mine. We’ll discuss it later. For now, all you need to do is ask questions and listen.”
“I just… I don’t want to give her false hope.”
“You won’t,” I assured her.
It was a lie. One look at Sloane’s earnest face, those eager eyes, and Mary Louise Upshaw was going to feel what I had felt at seventeen. Hope.
The heavy metal door on the far end of the room opened, and a woman in a beige jumpsuit entered.
My throat felt dry and tight.
She was white with thick, wavy chestnut-brown hair streaked with gray. Without the jumpsuit, she would have looked like anyone’s middle-aged mom. The guard pointed to us, and a look of curiosity flitted across her features.
She headed in our direction, and I felt Sloane stop breathing.
I slid my arm around the back of her chair and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “It’s just a conversation,” I said, keeping my voice low.
I felt her relax infinitesimally.
“Hello,” Mary Louise said, pulling out the chair across from us and sitting.
“Hi.” Sloane’s voice squeaked. She cleared her throat and began again. “Mary Louise, I’m Sloane Walton, and this is my…associate Lucian Rollins. We had some questions about your case and sentence.”
“Are you reporters?” Mary Louise asked, cocking her head.
Sloane’s gaze slid to me. “No.”
There was a guard stationed across the room, looking blank-faced and bored. It made my skin crawl.
“Lawyers?” Mary Louise looked hopeful.
Sloane shook her head. “No. Just…” She looked at me again, help written in those lovely green eyes.
I leaned forward. “Ms. Upshaw, we recently stumbled across a mention of your case. Did you ever meet with a Simon Walton? He was an attorney.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I’ve only had public defenders. Simon was my son’s mentor. He helped Allen get into law school. He unfortunately passed away recently.”
Sloane tensed against me as if bracing for the inevitable blow of grief.
“It looked as though Simon had taken an interest in your case, specifically your sentencing,” I continued. “Can you shed any light as to why that might be?”
Mary Louise shrugged and interlaced her fingers on the table. “Maybe because it was one of the harshest sentences for possession and trafficking in the state of Virginia in the last thirty-five years.”
Sloane cleared her throat. “You said initially that the drugs found in your car during your traffic stop weren’t yours. And then you changed your statement and pled guilty.”
Mary Louise studied us with narrowed eyes for a beat. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“I’m Sloane Walton. Simon was my father. I think he wanted to help you, but he got sick before he could.”
Mary Louise took a breath, sympathy shining in her eyes. “Your father was a good man. He changed my son’s life, so I can only imagine what he did for you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Sloane reached across the table with one hand. Mary Louise took it and squeezed.
And there it was. That sneaky bastard that would only lead to disappointment, devastation. Hope. It bloomed over both women’s faces, and I resigned myself to the fact that things were going to get messy…and expensive.
“I met Allen the day of my dad’s funeral,” Sloane told her. “You raised a great kid.”
Mary Louise’s face rearranged into maternal pride. “I know it. I wish I could take credit for it, but I’ve been in here since he was sixteen.”